Transparent Pour Elle Seule
by chaton-espion
Summary: Sark is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Part missing scene, part AU. S2, "The Counteragent". Complete.


Title: Transparent Pour Elle Seule*  
  
Author: chaton espion  
  
Rating: R  
  
Ship: Sydney/Sark  
  
Timeline: S2, between "The Counteragent" and "Passage Pt.1"  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Alias, or any of its characters. Blame JJ Abrams, Bad Robot, and Disney for the lack of smut on the show.  
  
Feedback: Is craved and adored. Really.  
  
Author's note: This is part missing scene, part AU. I originally intended for this to be a stand-alone, but I may write a sequel. Eventually. The story came out of an annoyance with Vaughn for letting Sydney walk away at the end of "The Counteragent" and my smutty brain took it from there. Enjoy!  
  
The pain in her chest is killing her. He's talking; trying to make things right, but she doesn't want to listen.  
  
"Seriously. Don't explain." She pauses. "I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
He nods, the longing that she herself feels evident in his eyes. She turns away, and walks resolutely from him. She's tired; tired of excuses and reasons for why he can't say that he loves her, although it's clear to all the world that he does.  
  
She doesn't look back.  
  
Her house is dark, and cool. No one's been home for hours. She remembers that Francie went out of town for the night. She flings keys on the counter; kicks shoes off her feet as she makes her way to the fridge. She takes out a bottle of wine.  
  
She perches on the edge of the tub, watching the hot water pool beneath her. The steam makes her skin damp as she waits for the bath to fill. She sips the red liquid, lets it swirl around her tongue before letting it slip down her throat.  
  
Finally, she slides into the water, the heat so intense that it borders on pain. She lets it relax her muscles, the tension melting out of her like so much ice. She takes another sip. The coolness of the wine contrasts deliciously with the hot bath water.  
  
She enjoys her solitude at first, but her mind keeps turning to thoughts of him. Is he with her right now? Is he kissing her? Is he fucking her?  
  
She steps from the bath, and dries herself off. She pads down the hall to her bedroom. It's cooler then the rest of the house. Her bed hasn't seen the heat of passion for far too long.  
  
Her stomach growls, and she realizes how hungry she is. Remembering that the bottle of wine she'd finished was the next-to-last thing in her fridge; she pulls on her favourite black dress. She sweeps her hair into a messy up- do.  
  
She picks her keys up from where she left them, and puts them in her purse. She heads out the door into the night. The warm air hugs her skin as she walks to her car.  
  
The waiter leads her to a table out on their patio. She sits and thanks him as he hands her a menu. She orders a glass of wine. He nods graciously and leaves.  
  
She sighs and leans her chin on her palm as she waits. The patio is lit with soft white lights and candles, giving everything a warm glow. Plants and flowers give off a fresh scent as they line the edges of the stone terrace. She glances around at the other diners, and feels self-conscious as she realizes that she is the only one dining alone. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.  
  
The waiter returns with the wine and pours some into a glass. Her eyes catch the label. "I'm sorry, that's not what I ordered."  
  
"No, this is a much finer wine. Petrus, '82."  
  
"I can't afford that."  
  
"It's been taken care of." He replies with a conspiratorial smile. He leaves again.  
  
She's confused, until she hears the smooth voice speak behind her. "I hope that wasn't too presumptuous of me."  
  
He walks around to face her. He is perfection, as always; his black suit clean and crisp, his manner smooth and polite. His eyes are filled with amusement. "Why do you continue to settle for less then the best?" he asks.  
  
She is on edge. "What do you want?"  
  
"I was merely passing by when I saw you. I thought it was a crime for a women such as yourself to be dining alone, so I hoped you wouldn't mind the company."  
  
"I have trouble believing that." She says.  
  
He smirks. His eyes indicate the empty chair across from her. "May I?"  
  
She returns the smirk. "Be my guest. It's not as though I have a choice."  
  
He pulls out the chair and sits. The waiter returns with a menu and they order.  
  
The silence that sits between them is palpable. She eyes him suspiciously, but this only seems to amuse him. The food arrives, and they eat without exchanging a word. Finally, he speaks. "May I inquire as to why you're alone this evening?"  
  
She sips her wine. "Does a girl need a reason to treat herself to dinner once in awhile?"  
  
"No," he smiles, "I suppose not. I just assumed you'd be with Mr. Vaughn."  
  
Her breath stills in her chest. Slowly, she rests her glass on the table, and looks him hard in the eyes. "What do you know about Vaughn?" She asks lowly.  
  
"Nothing, really. I know that he was the man you were willing to kill Sloane for." He pauses. "Tell me, was Vaughn appreciative of what you were willing to sacrifice in order to save his life?"  
  
She has a vision of Vaughn, his arms around Alice, kissing her the way she herself desperately needs to be kissed. She glares at him and says nothing. She blushes furiously.  
  
He leans back. "I see."  
  
"It's complicated." She says, more to herself than to him.  
  
"Indeed." He replies. His eyes travel over her, admiring the way the light makes her skin glow, the way her long neck curves smoothly to her shoulders. "Although, one has to wonder what kind of fool he must be."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"You're a remarkable woman." He says sincerely.  
  
"Spare me your flirtations." She replies. "I'm not in the mood."  
  
He laughs.  
  
He is maddening.  
  
She pours herself another glass of wine. She drinks, and he wonders how it must taste on her tongue. He bites his lip.  
  
"You and I, we're two of a kind." He says  
  
"How so?" She asks, her voice dripping with irony.  
  
"We're both two of the best operatives in our field. We both enjoy the finer things in life." He looks at her, his eyes gazing meaningfully into hers. "The only difference being that I'm never willing to settle for anything but the best."  
  
"I can think of another difference."  
  
He raises an eyebrow.  
  
"You use your superb operational skills to kill and torture innocent people."  
  
"They're not always innocent."  
  
"And sometimes they are."  
  
He thinks for a moment. "Ah. You must be referring to your friend Mr. Tippin."  
  
She says nothing.  
  
"That was an unfortunate business necessity. It could have been a lot worse for him, though." He sips his wine.  
  
"Worse then being emotionally scarred for the rest of his life?"  
  
"I could have put a bullet in his brain." He replies. "It would have been more convenient that way."  
  
"What stopped you?"  
  
"My utmost respect for you."  
  
"Bullshit."  
  
He smiles. "Quite. Your mother wouldn't allow it."  
  
She scoffs. "My mother..."  
  
"She used to tell me about you."  
  
She is intrigued.  
  
"When I was young, she used to show me pictures of you. She'd tell me of the little girl and husband she left behind in America. I was intensely jealous of you at the time, as I was so young myself, and had come to think of Irina as the mother I never had." Another sip of wine. "As I got older, I found myself fascinated with you. You were mythological to me; legendary. I strove to be your equal in the field, because I longed not only for Irina's approval, but yours as well."  
  
She is speechless.  
  
She barely has the strength to withstand his gaze. Instead of answering, she finishes her drink. The waiter reappears, like an angel sent from God, to give them the bill. They both reach for it. "Please, allow me." He says.  
  
She thinks about arguing, but concedes. She watches as he takes care of the matter, and she can feel that her skin is warmer than usual. She suspects that it is not only from drinking too much wine. When the waiter leaves, his eyes return to hers. She notices for the first time how blue they are.  
  
She shakes her head slightly, and stands. "Thank you... for the dinner."  
  
"It was my pleasure."  
  
She's waiting for her car and he stands beside her to wait for his own. She feels awkward about him now. It's hard to be rude or condescending to him, now that he's been so civil. He places his hands in his pockets and looks at her. He notices a slight sway to her stance, but says nothing of it.  
  
Her car pulls up, and she steps forward, but she knows she shouldn't be driving. She glances at him as the valet hands her the keys. He's watching her, curious. "I'm sorry," she says to the valet, "but I think I've had a bit too much to drink. Could you call me a taxi?"  
  
The valet smiles and tells her that it's not a problem. She hands her keys back to him, and the valet leaves to park her car again. She walks back over to him. He's smirking at her.  
  
"Shut up." She says, trying to hide her smile.  
  
The valet returns in a silver Mercedes and he gets out and hands both of them their keys. The valet leaves them to call a taxi service.  
  
He smiles at her, then walks over to his car. He opens the door to get in when her voice stops him.  
  
"You're not going to offer me a ride home?" She asks, a slight quaver detectable to them both.  
  
He considers her question. He's surprised. "I never thought you would accept."  
  
He walks around to the passenger door and opens it. She hesitates for a moment, knowing that accepting this will change the playing field. She doesn't know what she's doing, but she's fairly certain of where she'll end up. She gets in the car.  
  
He slides into the driver's seat, and the small space they're sitting in is filled with the smell of his soap, her perfume, and leather. Her breath is uneven as she breathes it all in.  
  
They say nothing. The ride is filled with tension, and the knowledge that every time he changes gears, his arm brushes against her leg. She doesn't move it. He knows the way to her house perfectly. This doesn't surprise her.  
  
He steals glances of her when he can. She's biting her lip and fingering a strand of her hair. She sees him watching her, and she tucks it behind her ear. She looks scared, but not entirely unsure of what she's doing.  
  
He slows the car to a stop in front of her house. He gets out and shuts the door behind him. She lets out a breath. She's nervous as hell. He opens the door for her, and helps her out.  
  
They walk down the path to her front door. She unlocks it and steps inside. She turns to him. He opens his mouth to speak, but her lips stop the words from escaping.  
  
They're warm and moist against his. She drops her keys and purse on the floor as her hands slide up his chest. They grip his collar, and she pulls him towards her and into the house. He kicks the door shut behind them.  
  
"Not that I'm protesting, but what are you doing?" He asks, breathless, against her ear.  
  
"You said I should stop settling for anything less than the best." She replies. She's kissing him again as he backs her into a wall.  
  
Her tongue is sliding between her lips. She flicks it over his, silently pleading for him to let her in. His lips part, and she flows into him, unstoppable as the tide.  
  
Her hands are insistent, running up his back, his neck, and slipping through his hair. She's holding him to her, his mouth taken hostage by hers.  
  
He pulls her hips tighter against his, and the way she moans into his mouth when she feels that he's ready for her is perfectly erotic. He slides his hands up her waist to her shoulders, where they rest at the straps of her silky dress. He slips them off.  
  
He breaks from her mouth, only to trail tiny bites and kisses over her jaw, and down her neck. She sighs.  
  
Her hands slip into his coat and push it free from his shoulders. It drops to the floor, and she slowly works at his shirt. Button by button, more of his skin is revealed until she frees him from this as well. The shirt falls next to the offending coat.  
  
He's marked by scars, but she doesn't care. She traces them with her fingers, fascinated by the white lines and curves etched into his skin.  
  
He's kissing her mouth again, with more fury and passion then before. His tongue is demanding. He tastes the wine he'd longed to at dinner. Chateau Petrus never tasted this delicious before.  
  
His hands move around her to the back of her dress. He feels for the zipper, and slowly tugs it down.  
  
She slides out of it and smiles when he sees that she wears nothing underneath. He stares at her body with something akin to reverence.  
  
She pulls him against her, and she takes his crooked lip into her mouth, sucking and nibbling until he growls. She smiles again.  
  
He slides his hand down her taut stomach and between her legs. She is wet and warm and waiting for him. She gasps as he slides his fingers over her. He teases her, rubbing them over her, but not quite penetrating. He watches as she leans her head back and moans as he finally pushes his fingers inside of her. His thumb rubs and presses against her clit as his fingers slide in and out of her.  
  
She is panting for breath, and her hips are moving against his hand, desperate for more.  
  
He dips his head, and kisses her breasts. He takes her nipple into his mouth, teasing it with teeth and tongue. First one, now the other.  
  
His pants are stretched painfully over his cock. His breath hitches as he feels her hand brush against his erection. She gazes at him, unwavering, as she slowly undoes his belt then pulls down his zipper. She slips her fingers into the waist of his pants and boxers and pushes them down over his hips. A wicked smile spreads across her lips.  
  
She wraps her hand around him as she slowly lowers herself to her knees. Her breath is hot against his skin, and he feels as though an eternity passes before he feels her take his head into her mouth. He groans, and braces his hands against the wall.  
  
Her mouth is hot, and perfect around him.  
  
She is driving him to madness, and he stops her before she pushes him past the edge. He pulls her to her feet.  
  
She's laughing at his eagerness. She pulls him through the house, never breaking her lips from his as they go. She pulls him onto her bed. Their skin is like fire.  
  
His lips are moving down her now. Down her throat, between her breasts, down her stomach. His hands gently push apart her legs. She is trembling.  
  
Her scent is all around him. He breathes her in as his mouth connects with her. Her body jumps a little, and he hears her moan.  
  
His tongue is clever; moving in all the way she needs it to.  
  
Her taste is salty, and he wants to devour her.  
  
Before long, she is gasping for air, and she's pulling his hair, trying to bring his face to hers. He kisses her.  
  
She tastes herself on his lips.  
  
She reaches between them and grasps his cock. She looks into his eyes as she guides him inside of her. She cries out as he fills her.  
  
She is exquisitely slick and hot and tight around him. His breath is out of control as he thrusts into her.  
  
She is crying out words. Need. Harder. Deeper.  
  
He can only comply.  
  
She is like the ocean's waves: swelling, threatening to crest and crash. She hears their pants and moans. Her fingernails bite his back.  
  
She is coming underneath him.  
  
He watches her arc, her neck long and strained as she throws back her head and shouts. He lets himself go.  
  
He dips his head and bites her shoulder, but it doesn't stop him from crying out. He can't remember coming the way he does with her.  
  
She is gasping for air; her legs still wrapped tightly around his hips. She is shaking.  
  
He collapses on her, exhausted and satisfied. His head rests against her breast. She is still catching her breath.  
  
She runs her fingers through his hair.  
  
They sleep.  
  
Morning comes too soon. She is sleeping stretched out on her stomach.  
  
He is watching her. He runs his hand up her back and into her dark hair. Her skin is smooth and warm like honey.  
  
She sighs. Her eyes open. She smiles.  
  
"Good morning." He says.  
  
"G'morning." She replies. She yawns.  
  
He stares.  
  
She kisses him. "What?"  
  
"You know what."  
  
She sighs.  
  
"Was it the wine?" He asks, unsure of himself by the light of day. He hates it.  
  
"No." She says. Her voice is firm.  
  
"You weren't drunk?"  
  
She thinks. "Drunk enough to not care about the consequences; not so drunk that I regret anything."  
  
He smiles. His relief is endless.  
  
He kisses her.  
  
She pulls away. "What's your name?"  
  
He doesn't respond for a moment. His name has been a secret, long known only to him, Irina, and his father, wherever he is.  
  
"Julian."  
  
She smiles. She pulls him into a deep kiss.  
  
When she comes, she calls out his name. His real name.  
  
She sleeps again. He knows she'll change her mind about him, once she goes back to the CIA, to Vaughn.  
  
He knows her secret, knows whom she really works for.  
  
He won't tell.  
  
He leaves her in blissful sleep.  
  
****  
  
*Title is from "Mon Reve Familier" by Paul Verlaine. Translated, it means "Transparent For Her Alone". Fun fact!  
  
Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant D'une femme inconnue, et que j'aime, et qui m'aime, Et qui n'est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même Ni tout à fait une autre, et m'aime et me comprend.  
  
Car elle me comprend, et mon cœur, transparent Pour elle seule, hélas! Cesse d'être un problème Pour elle seule, et les moiteurs de mon front blême, Elle seule les sait rafraîchir, en pleurant.  
  
Est-elle brune, blonde ou rousse?—Je l'ignore. Son nom? Je me souviens qu'il est doux et sonore Comme ceux des aimés que la Vie exila.  
  
Son regard est pareil au regard des statues, Et pour sa voix, lointaine, et calme, et grave, elle a L'inflexion des voix chères qui se sont tues. 


End file.
